There is a Future
by Catheryne
Summary: An accident provides Chuck the opportunity to consider what the future would be for Blair without him.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I am very highly focused on my Elizabethan CB, but this had to come gushing out. From my standpoint it can stand on its own—definitely I intended to create a oneshot, but it seems like it might have started to take a life of its own. Either way, it will be very short by my standards—possibly about 3-4 parts. Idea is loosely based on a filming picture.

**There is a Future**

She was in bed, curled up underneath the sheets. He walked into his bedroom with a small smile on his face. She looked at home, like she belonged. Chuck went to her and crept up behind her, then pressed a kiss to her ear. She moaned softly under her breath and took a deep breath.

Knew she could smell him, knew she loved his scent surrounding her.

With his fingers he touched wisps of her hair. He raised himself up on one elbow and saw the way her eyes squeezed tighter.

"I miss you," she breathed.

The words were a balm to his heart, and he brushed a butterfly kiss on the back of her shoulder. "I missed you too." Her breath hitched. Chuck looked up in concern and frowned when he saw the tears from the corner of her eye. She opened her eyes and stared out the window.

"Blair," he said softly, wondering what he had done wrong, whether he had slipped up the night before. He could remember nothing save a kiss goodbye and waking up that morning knowing he needed to come home. And home—that was her.

She turned and lay back on the bed. She looked up at the ceiling, and she was silent. She did not look at him, nor address him, and knew whatever it was he had committed he would pay for it for a long time. Her tears tracked from the corner of her eyes down her temples to vanish in her hair.

And he sat behind her, did not dare leave the room right then. She stayed in silence staring at the ceiling. Chuck watched when finally she sat up and pulled herself up from the bed. The frailty of her frame was a surprise to his eyes.

"Hey," he began gently, because when she was angry enough to ignore him it always made the most sense to be gentler, easier. He had never been as mature as he found himself to be since the day he said 'I love you,' and it was the hardest thing he had to do. The most difficult, but by far the most rewarding. "You know," he said, a smile gentling the harsh lines of his face, "I hate it when you cry."

Which was quite possibly why he worked so hard to keep her satisfied.

She pushed the curtains to the side and stood in her nightgown, a shadowed silhouette against the bright square window of the streaming sun. He approached her, stood behind her and placed his hands on her hips. Sadly he rested his chin on her shoulder and breathed. In front of him, her body relaxed and she threw back her head. To his eyes, with the sunlight on her tear-streaked face, it appeared the sadness shone with the refraction of the light.

"Waldorf, I'm sorry," he said. What pride he could swallow, even when he did not know why, that he could apologize so easily just to see her tears dry.

"I hate you for this," he heard her whisper. His arms tightened around her waist and he buried his lips in the crook of her neck. And she sobbed, her lashes trembling as she closed her eyes. "This isn't fair."

And then she drew herself out of his arms, walk past him towards the bathroom they shared as if they were married and living together. He followed at her heel. She faced the mirror and reached for—

Her hand hovered above the space he had provided for her, and he waited. Her hand was unsteady as she stared at her toothbrush, or her facial wash, or her bottle of perfume. She looked up at her face, and his heart broke at the dark rims under her eyes. Her lips were dry, when she never let herself go an hour without lipgloss. The sheen, she told him once, attracted him. And he did not have the heart to agree that her mouth was heaven to him any moment of the day, glossed or not, dry or moist, it was heaven.

"If you think you're going to leave me," she said spitefully, low at his reflection in the mirror, "then think again. If you leave me, I'll hate you forever."

At the words, at the bitterness that came unexpectedly, he started. Her eyes went past him, did not quite meet his gaze.

If he had done something as awful as this, he would remember. And it did not matter how drunk or drugged or exhausted her was, he never hurt her without a memory, nor a plan to fix the heart he'd broken.

Even when it seemed that something was terribly wrong, the raw agony in her voice brought him close to her. His face intent on their reflection in the mirror he wrapped his arms around her waist now, tightly enough that he did not know where she ended and he began. She closed her eyes and placed her hands on the sink, and he bowed her body like she were in pain.

And she sobbed, her body wracking with emotion as she did. "I can feel you," she said aloud. "I can feel you here. Dammit, Chuck, you're not supposed to be here!"

Slowly, it dawned on him, but the fearful possibility was too large to understand, to accept.

"You're not supposed to be here," she said again. "I can't be feeling you; I can't be smelling you. Chuck, I can't have you like this."

And he held on to her, tightly, afraid to set her free. His mouth touched the cold outer shell of her ear as he bent forward to drape himself on her and he held her while she cried. "I love you," he swore to her. "I won't leave."

Only then did her cry grow louder. He was helpless when she slid down, despite his effort to hold her. She turned and rested her back against the sink as her knees slowly folded. He looked down at her as she sat on the floor with her legs folded underneath her. She rested her head back, and she looked up and he swore she met his eyes for a second.

"I miss you," she said, tired, breathless. "I miss your voice. I miss you in bed. I miss you."

And he slowly knelt, his heart splintering when her gaze did not follow his movement. She stared up lost and alone and wrung. He placed a hand against her cheek, and upon contact she looked surprised, her breath drew out of her parted lips. She brought up a hand to touch her cheek, and Chuck stared at how it appeared to him, felt to him, like she touched his too.

"I'm right here," he said quietly.

And she closed her eyes again. In his imagination she saw him when she closed her eyes, and that was why she kept him closed most of the time. "It's like you're here," she said, a slight note of hope crept into her voice.

So he leaned forward and he captured her mouth, and it was unresponsive but he kissed her lips.

"Don't be here," she said, her whisper like a breath against his face. "If you're here—"

A hand rested on his shoulder, familiar, comforting, but for a moment he ignored it and placed a kiss on her forehead instead.

"If you're here, who am I talking to when I visit you?" she continued.

With her words, flickering images returned, like a grainy video he watched when the sounds cut in and out and the lens could not find a point of focus. The fight was vicious, and she had called him names she did not mean and he lashed back about the lengths he had tried, the patience he had had, and how he was completely done. He had spent the night away while she stewed, then raced to come home the moment he called and he heard her voice—hitched a ride with another guest at the club when the limo would have taken a split second too long.

In the crash, while he lay bleeding, he wondered how she would remember him.

Slowly, he turned around, saw the imposing figure that was his father standing behind him in their bathroom. Bart extended a hand to him, then with a somber invitation, he said, "Come on, son."

"Am I dead?" he said aloud.

"Not yet." Bart gestured to his hand. Chuck wondered why it had to be his father, why even in his death he was not afforded the opportunity to see his mother taking him to the great beyond.

Chuck stared at Bart's hand, and then looked back at where Blair still sat. "I can't leave her, dad."

Bart glanced at the girl on the floor, then one corner of his lips curved. "So you took my advice," he commented.

Belatedly, Chuck recognized the strides he had done since the summer, and realized he had done most of what his father told him after his wedding day. He had been too young at the time, too easily scared. "Doesn't do me much good, does it?" he returned. "If you're here, and you're taking me away. Doesn't do her much good either."

Bart sighed. "You know, son, sometimes we're too afraid to let go of the people in our lives. Sometimes we need to accept that leaving them is best." And then, with a little pride that Chuck hardly saw when his father was alive, Bart said, "Look at you. I've never been prouder than when I see the kind of man you've become."

"You're telling me that she'd be better off without me?" Chuck asked.

Bart assessed her, and Chuck leaned back when she pulled herself up to her feet. She turned on the running water and splashed her face. Chuck nodded towards the door, and Bart smirked as he stepped outside.

"I don't have the answer to that. I can't see the future, son."

Chuck locked his jaw, then stated, "I'm not coming with you, dad."

"So you'd rather spend years in that coma?" Bart challenged his son. "You'd subject her to that?"

Behind him, he heard the gasping sounds as Blair cried in what he supposed was silence. He licked his lips. "First, I need to know she'll be fine."

And again, Bart offered his hand. "I can't see the future for her. I don't know her that well. But you can." Chuck stared at his father's hand. "Let me guide you, son."

Chuck glanced back at Blair as she held a mascara wand with an unsteady hand, in her futile attempt to put on her makeup, to hide herself before she emerged from his bedroom.

"Alright," Chuck decided. He walked to stand behind her, the pushed the hair from the back of her neck and placed a lingering kiss on her nape. "I love you," he said.

He returned to his father, and placed his hand in his. As he faded, he heard the faint voice say, "I love you too."

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Thank you for the welcome.

**Part 2**

She was the same, all the same, beautiful in his eyes to such extreme it hurt to stare. At the sight of her with her bag slung on her left shoulder, teetering in heels down the steps of the Empire, his lips curved as her curls bounced around her face. He looked back at his father, who looked instead at the first building that Chuck had purchased with his Bass Industries shares. Bart nodded at Chuck, a proof of his approval, and Chuck thought he was right when he thought that Bart would be happy over his dead body.

"Look at her," Chuck said. And she walked across the lobby of his hotel with a confident stride that told him it had been years since she had been the worried about her worth, wondered who it was that gave her the boost, envied the person who took her hand today. "She's fine."

He should be a little hurt, he thought.

"It's been five years," his father said.

Five years without him over the five months they had been together. A lot could change. A lot did change.

It was her smile, fixed, reaching her eyes with a crinkle at their corners. It was the smile that drew her lips tight and wide, the smile that bared her teeth. It was the smile that accompanied the eager hand when she shook hands with a man who walked with her to a plush couch in the lobby.

"She does look like she's happy," his father told him.

He was familiar with that smile. She used it way back when they were younger, when she just knew that the reason that Nate arrived forty five minutes after schedule was someone she denied, when she wanted to show him she was fine when he could not admit what he felt.

It was a famous smile, a popular one, and he killed that smile every day they were together, chipped away at the false brightness until he unearthed the smile he remembered. The smile she discovered for him. So he made his way over to where she sat.

And he listened to her when she enumerated everything she hated about the interior. He looked up and found the brass he had fought so hard to install changed into polished modern silver, and the carpeted balcony tiled and floored with thick glass. His Empire turned from its old, aged beauty to burnished sophistication.

"Five years ago, this was home," she said. "Now it's a knock off of Marriott and doesn't deserve its name."

And he let out a snort of laughter, because her words could have come from his mouth. If the man could hear him his ears would burn.

"We used to have chandeliers," she said.

"The lighting is top notch. The manufacturer lit the lobby of the Hyatt."

"You shouldn't have asked to meet me if you're not going to listen," she told the man, then stood. "You know I have more important things to take care of."

Blair rose from her seat and so did he. In reflex, or just nature borne from having done the same countless times before, he reached for her hand. Underneath his touch she jerked away as if shocked.

She could feel him. Feel him like a touch of electricity that still charged within her. Five years and he should have been forgotten, should barely have been a shadow in the corner of her eye. But he heard her audible breath, almost feel the thunderous beating of her heart.

And with something born of impulse he quickly kissed the corner of her mouth.

~o~o~o~

It brushed against her lips, and her fingers drifted up to her mouth. So briefly, so tentatively. Her lashes fluttered closed and she drew a breath. And then her eyes opened and she looked around her at the empty space that was filled with the comings and goings of strangers in her life.

"You're here," she whispered.

It was thrill, a chill, an overwhelming feeling that made her look. She looked down; she drew a breath; she willed herself to calm.

"Took you long enough," she said softly. Her hand drifted to her chest, to rest over her heart. With her palm open and resting over her left breast, she waited. Her fingers tangled in the chain, and she held on to the cold metal ring that hung from there. It took a few seconds, but it was silent. She could not tell what she hoped for, but like always it was dead and silent.

"Well?"

Dead silent like everything that mattered.

She swallowed the tight coil in her throat, and she raised her head, fixed her gaze on the door. A few steps, a little while longer.

"Hey!"

She turned around, slowly, like she was immersed in heavy fluid. There were moments when she thought she was, and she was in preservatives, never growing old, never hurting, and worst of all never dying. But when she turned, she was herself. And she had on a smile, welcoming if superior—because she was. She always was.

"S," she said in greeting, thrifty and direct.

And Serena nodded towards the corridor that led to the Empire offices. There were photographs there, and when she was alone she enjoyed spending a moment. In there, she could pretend that he was looking at her, watching her, and she would pretend she smiled back at a coarse joke.

"I think Jack wants to talk to you."

When everything that was his—hers—everything theirs changed hands and went to a man she knew that he despised, there were two choices. She could walk away for the sake of her pride, or stay for the sake of his.

And she said to the girl who used to be her best friend, "I don't really have time right now."

And Serena reached for her, for the hand that still crawled with a phantom touch. Blair drew away quickly and inserted it in her pocket.

"You know we're relaunching the hotel, Blair. The designer mentioned your notes, and Jack swears he'll consider them."

When promises from people who did not matter were the best news she heard, when they lit a fire of hope within her—

"And New York knows this hotel is Blair Waldorf," Serena continued.

Because it was. Chuck had made sure of that. Every night, every event, for the three months when the Empire had been a spectacular landmark of New York City, to the day that Blair Waldorf had been photographed standing at the entrance when the news broke of the accident that mirrored his father's, up until the day she was filmed in full black couture led through the Empire's wide open doorways to the limousine that took her to the church—the Empire was her.

But she returned, to look at the old familiar haunt, to touch old familiar things, to smell the old familiar scents. And every week, every month it became a little less of him.

One month after he died, she still slept in his bed. Until one morning she turned and buried her face in his pillow and she breathed. And she stood from the bed and wrapped the sheets around herself, slumped in the artificial darkness of the drawn drapes. And when the door opened she looked at the maid and said softly, "It doesn't smell like him anymore."

And it was not even Dorota, but it crept so powerfully and incessantly that she allowed the strange woman to sit with her and pull her close.

One year, and it was their club. It turned into an elegant restaurant where lute players were on the schedule and the finest chefs were brought from Madrid. Four years later and she still could not taste a bit of flavor from their dishes.

Five years and he was completely gone.

"Jack will do what he wants, S."

And gently, she touched her, and Blair paused for a moment because there was a time when Serena had cared. "I saw what you wanted, but you can't really think it would be good for the hotel to turn it back to exactly how it looked like five years ago."

"What's wrong with five years ago?" And she smiled, because it was her greatest, her best, her most. "The Empire was at its very best five years ago."

But Serena looked at her sadly, and most horribly—with sympathy. So she turned on her heel and walked away.

The limo waited right outside, and she thanked the doorman curtly when he held the door open for her. She slid on the leather seat, cool against her skin. The door slammed shut, and in the privacy of the vehicle the smile faded and she rested back her head.

~o~o~o~

He slid beside her, close enough that when he rested his cheek against the back of the seat he felt her breath against his face. If he had a breath she would feel it too. He had only just abandoned his father in the hotel, but Bart Bass always found a way in life—what more now.

Her eyes were closed, but her cheeks were dry. She forced her smile outside, but that she was no longer crying was a testament to how far she had come in the years since he died.

"Is he right?" Chuck said quietly, knowing she could not hear him.

"Hmmm," she said softly, her lips curved gently, thoughtfully.

"Tell me you're okay."

Her eyes remained closed, and he wondered if she was asleep. If she was, he wondered how many of the nights she dreamed of him, or if she dreamed of him at all. He turned to face the roof of the limo, and with her beside him he could tell the exact moment his life began. How apt to know his first breath was the day she turned to kiss him.

"You know, Chuck—"

He started at the sound, then looked at her as she stared off to a vacant point beside where he was. And he played on his fantasy, because even though she could not hear him, still he answered, "What, Waldorf?"

"Someday I'm going to need you less."

"Is that so?"

"I promise," she breathed. And at that he smiled a little, because nothing could bring her down. He had said it once, and she could not believe it before. But he did, and he knew she only had to believe in herself enough for it to be true. "So you died. A long time ago," she reasoned. "You died—But I'm Blair Waldorf." When she said the name, her voice was strong, like he needed it to be.

He placed a hand on her cheek, and he said, "Yes. You are."

And a teardrop stained his thumb. "You died—" A pause, as if nothing came after that.

And once more, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut to block out the world around her. He shook his head, then he leaned and pressed his forehead against hers. He felt her gentle tremor under him. "Waldorf, how am I supposed to leave when you're like this?"

This trip—what his father showed him—this was supposed to be his comfort in knowing that he could leave and she would be fine. And here she was, twenty three and nothing like the way he had always imagined she would be.

The limo slowed, came to a full stop. They were in front of the Palace now, ran still by Lily and was in the midst of what appeared like a full blown party. She straightened, took a tissue from a box before her and dabbed at her eyes. She took a compact from her purse and he wanted to tell her she looked beautiful.

He followed her out of the limo and spotted his father standing by the line of the photographers who snapped pictures of her as she paused and politely posed for a couple of shots.

Chuck shook his head. "I can't leave," he told his father. "She's not fine, dad."

"You know, son, that can be your vanity talking."

"She hasn't moved on," Chuck pointed out. "Clearly, she still—"

The ruckus from the entrance of the Palace brought his attention back. And Blair stood once more with a bright smile as she held out her hand. Nate walked out of the Palace with a casual wave to the photographers. Her voice was light, and she greeted, "Congressman, congratulations!"

He watched when Nate stopped at her side and wrapped an arm around her waist.

The bright, flashing bulbs of the cameras were blinding. He raised an arm to shield his eyes.

~o~o~o~

When his vision cleared, the room dimmed a little at a time. Chuck blinked until his retinas were no longer painfully seared. As he adjusted his sight the shadowed figure of his father appeared before him, slowly mellowing back into color.

"Have you seen enough?" his father asked.

Had he?

"I was there, Chuck," he offered sadly. "And I know it's a blow, but five years is enough time. It's understandable if she's moved on."

"She hasn't," Chuck insisted. He wondered then why it was that his father could not be there for the moments that he saw. "I saw her, dad. I talked to her."

At that, his father's brows rose. "You thought you talked to her."

"I swear—she knows when I'm there."

And that was when he heard her voice. "Hey," she said softly. Chuck turned around and saw himself inside a hospital room. "Hi!" He willed himself to respond. The look on her face when the figure on the bed—him—only it wasn't because he stood a few feet away—was still. She took a deep breath, then leaned forward and placed a kiss on an ugly bruise on his forehead.

It felt like the fluttering wing of a butterfly dancing by his brow. He touched briefly where he felt it, and wondered if this was how it felt for her. A thousand little fingers grazed his arms gently. He watched her wrap him in an embrace.

She bent low, then murmured into his ear.

And from where he stood he heard her whisper, "Wake up, Chuck. I got something in the mail today." He felt it against his ear, when her lips brushed tenderly. "Well, you got something," she amended, holding on to a piece that had replaced her pendant. "And I love it."

Slowly, he made his way towards her, with every step just a little farther from his father.

"Chuck, do you really want to make this longer?"

His eyes were entranced on what she held, and flickering memories teased him again—in their vague, jigsaw pieces melding together in his head.

He hated games, adored them. So much he dared forever with it.

ENDGAME, it said, in thin stark capitalized letters. On either side, their names. Just because it seemed right, even after the worst fight they had ever had.

He stopped across the hospital bed, so he could glimpse at his ring hanging close to her heart. She covered the tubes that ran into the back of his hand, and he almost felt the pain ease from his body. Despite the promise, the false cheer, he could see the pain in her eyes as starkly as he saw it in their bathroom. But she held herself well, and he was never prouder.

"Don't leave," she said, a command, a plea. It was the same to him.

"Never," he swore.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **This was supposed to be Parts 3 and 4, but I wanted to complete now. Let me know your thoughts. Thanks for reading.

**Part 3**

"You're closer to death than you are to waking up," came the cool, calm information, delivered without emotion, phrased in a logic with which it was difficult to put up an argument. "So I hope you're getting ready."

He had wasted so long in the chase, when two years before they could have been together. In the span of a lifetime those wasted months would have been nothing—forgettable even. But then, when a lifetime was as short as eighteen years, the lost time was an era. "Dad," Chuck asked, "why do you want me to die?"

"The longer you cling to a life that's over, the harder it is to find peace," his father said.

"When you died," he said, "how long did it take you to let go?"

"It was easy to do," his father answered. And then, as if it was a punishment he needed to bear, he said reluctantly, "You were the hardest to leave. But I let go of my marriage the moment I knew."

She was asleep now, in a stiff chair that was beside his bed. She rested her head on top of his sheets while her hand remained over his. The back of his own hand tickled, and knew it was her breath teasing his unresponsive skin.

"You don't know what it's like, dad," Chuck said softly.

There was a tone of patronizing surprise in Bart's voice when he answered, in the way acceptable only of a father speaking with a son who thought knew more than the elder. "I don't?"

"I didn't see this from Lily," Chuck replied, a little ashamed now for the statement. "Look, I like the woman but, dad—" And then, he gave a humorless chuckle, "But you probably saw all that."

Chuck felt the hand rest on his shoulder, and he glanced quickly back to see his father move beside him. Just as quickly as he took his eyes away he returned to watch the dull, uneventful scene before him—never thought he would be willing to spend an eternity just watching someone else sleep. But if this was what his consciousness would entail from here on out, it was not the worst way to spend forever.

And just like the kiss at the Empire, the impulse possessed him that what he wanted was to touch her. So he leaned over his own body and pushed the lock of hair that had fallen across her face.

In her sleep, she smiled.

In itself it was his reward.

He took a deep breath and turned his back on her. There was her entire lifetime before him, and there was time enough to watch her. When he saw his father, the older man shook his head with a furrow on his brow.

"What, dad?"

"You don't remember how it was when your mother died," Bart recalled, that one implosive moment in their lives that neither said aloud. Not until now. And then, referring to the gentle, unintended accusation from minutes ago, he continued, "Don't let everything you remember about me fool you. I was alive long before you were." At the statement, Chuck allowed his lips to curve. His father emphasized, "I know what it's like."

Once upon a time, his life came along with his mother's death, and it was so long ago so many people thought it did not matter. It mattered only to two people then. And still, to him, who had only ever experienced this, "You moved on. You had a parade of women. You married again."

"So will she."

But he was Chuck Bass.

Chuck Bass. And she was his, and she cared when no one else did. She had sworn it like a promise on a cold night on the rooftop. And now he could swear his father hovered over him the way he hovered now over Blair. Because it had been heavy—in his heart, on his shoulders, in his head. She had sworn that she cared when he knew the rest of the world did not.

She was there, waiting with a hand reaching for him, and he had promised when he clung to her that he would not leave again.

"She won't," he answered, with a finality that chilled him.

When all around them everyone loved, and lost, and moved on to another love.

"I thought the same thing when I lost your mother," his father confessed, and Chuck wondered how long it would be before his father's words sat ill with him. Had he been alive, would they ever have come to a point when Bart Bass could say the same to his son. "But everyone moves on. That's why life is an amazing gift."

But his father did not understand him in life. His father would not understand him in death.

And everyone else in the world who thought knew them, never really fully understood what it was to be them.

His father's voice held a note of concern when he admonished, "Your brain is closed off again. Is it just my voice, Chuck?" He sighed. "I want you to understand this, because when the time comes and you need to go, I want you to go." And then, in a gentler manner, he continued, "If you don't move on when it's time, you're going to stay lost here." His father patted him on the back, and it had been such rare commodity when the man was alive that the gesture at once called his attention. "You won't miss it. To me it was the entrance to a skyscraper. It was going to be the tallest in the world."

"Doesn't sound inviting," Chuck muttered, wondering how anyone would want a cold, well-lit hallway to be the way to the other side.

"It will look like anything—anything you love—anything you enjoy—anything you see heaven as. In fact, your mother told me hers was a seat to your kindergarten graduation."

Warmth rushed through him. "You saw her."

"Where else would she be?" his father replied with a smile. "She said she saw you get up on the stage. But she'd seen you were a little golden-haired boy. I can't imagine why."

"You can't blame her for that," Chuck answered. "She never saw me."

"I don't want you getting lost down here. If it's time to let go, then let go. You might think she won't get over you, but I promise, Chuck—she will. If you let go, she will."

The thought of it scared him. Despite his father's words, of loving, and learning to move on, despite the reassurance that he still loved his mother when he chose to marry another woman, he was terrified.

If he stayed, if he was lost—

He could whisper into her ear, and wait for the moment she could hear.

He could kiss her, and touch her, and wrap his arms around her. And she would not feel the pressure of his body, or the warmth of his skin. But she would know he was there and she would never forget.

He heard her. It was a shift in her breath, and at the faint sound he turned around. She had woken up in the night, and he watched as she touched each of his fingers, playfully intertwining them with hers for the lack of other entertainment.

She drew back one hand and reached for her purse, and faintly he heard the ringing sound slowly pierce through his senses. He was losing touch with the world, with how long it took to notice the noise. But when her thumb drew circles on his wrist he felt it.

"I'm sorry I can't. But thank you for the invite," she said politely, cheerfully. "I've got dinner with a few people from NYU. Alright. Bye!"

And she put down the phone, returned her attention to his hand as she talked, "That was Nate. Don't be jealous." In a petulant voice, she said, rising from her chair and carefully hopping up to sit on the bed and leaning down to speak closer to him, as if in confidence, "On second thought, be jealous. He wants dinner. And you know he wants more."

The lilt of her voice was childish and taunting, and it made him grin at the transparency.

"I mean, how can he resist this? And if you're not going to wake up there's a vacancy that he can fill."

It was her own words that stopped her.

So instead, she trailed fingers, tracing his cheekbones, brushing her thumbs across his eyebrows. She kissed his lashes. "Dorota wanted to come over to my dorm today, but I told her I had a study group session." She made a face at the sight of his lips. "That's a crime," she said. "So dry. I don't exactly have some Chapstick." And she shifted, "Daddy's telling me to visit his vineyard for a few months. But I have college, you know."

She laid her head down on his chest, over his heart.

"I love this music," she sighed. "I don't ever want it to stop."

In the dead quiet of the room, it could only be his heartbeat.

"Take me back," he said to his father. "Just one more time. Take me there and show me what you saw. Show me why you think she can move on."

And at once, his father agreed. "And when you see it," his father said, "you're going to let go."

"Show it to me," Chuck repeated.

Bart brought his hand up, not proffered with his palm facing up, but extended as in a handshake. He took the hand, then Chuck looked away from Blair. When he faced his father, they were standing inside a suite in the Palace. It was the best suite, one that was decorated by a Swiss designer that Bart had hired in a social function.

"Good taste," his father said appreciatively. "Deep pockets."

Chuck turned around and made his way to through the living area, then the kitchen. It was empty, so he walked towards the bedroom and found the bed neat and tucked. There was no trace of an occupant save for the slight way that the closet door was ajar.

He heard them arrive, so he walked outside and stopped at the doorway. When Nate and Blair stepped into the room, he knew at once that she felt him, because the smile she used on everyone grew slightly dark, and she drew back, very slightly, that it would have been hardly noticeable to anyone.

But he knew. He saw it, saw her, saw the gap between their bodies widen every so slightly.

She glanced towards the suite, spanning the empty room until her gaze rested back on Nate.

~o~o~o~o~

She was going insane.

She swore, in the periphery of her vision, that there was a shadow by the bedroom door.

Five years and even a phantom memory could make her heart skip.

"So, what do you say, Blair?" Nate prompted her.

She scanned the room with her eyes, saw nothing but knew, just knew. Instinctively she put a hairline between them.

It was not as if she did not expect it. She had known eventually she would go insane, and she knew it the moment they told her he was dead. She had cupped his face and kissed slack lips, then imagined he had kissed her back.

When they took him away, she thought she felt his arms surround her.

And that was when she knew, and she relished it, waited for the moment that she would go insane. Now here it was.

"You're drunk," she answered. "You're high on something."

"I've not taken anything since I started campaigning," Nate protested.

"You're high on winning. It's adrenaline," Blair argued. "And I think we had two bottles of champagne to celebrate. Between the two of us," she said, "that's—"

She trailed off, now certain that simple math became more difficult with alcohol and hallucinations already crowding one's head.

"One each," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "That's it. I need to go to bed," she said. "Chuck was right. It pays to have a suite ready anywhere you are." With a slight smile, she reminded him, "Chuck told me that the moment Nate Archibald sounds more level-headed than you do, it's time to stop drinking."

She looked down. Every time she looked up, he weaved in and out of a dancing suite. She took a deep breath and held onto his arms.

"I'm not blind," Nate said. "I know you love him. I know he loved you. Remember, I knew before you knew." With her eyes still closed, she smiled. Chuck and his own paralyzing fears. They could have begun so much sooner, could have spent more time together than the pitifully few months that they did. "And I know you're still in love with him."

At the words, her eyes fluttered open and she met his eyes. "Then why are you asking?"

He licked his lips, then admitted, "I won't fight it. It's pointless. I can't demand for you to stop because you won't."

"If you make me promise you to stop, I'm probably drunk enough to say I will," she confessed. With a hand on his chest, she suggested, "That's why it's better if we have this conversation in the morning."

"In the morning he'll still be dead," Nate said gently. "Same as today. Same as last month when I asked. So I'll never tell you to stop because I know you won't. But he's dead and you're not." He shook his head. "It's not cheating."

She blinked up at Nate. Her lips parted when she felt fluttering butterfly wings on her nape. Knew he was there, just behind her, kissing her—selfish bastard.

~o~o~o~o~

"Chuck, you wanted to come here to see," his father called to him when he strode to the living room and took a place behind her, "not to participate."

"You're not, Blair," Nate continued.

The man could look and sound sincere so easily, and Chuck hated that he could not see past the sincerity when he most wanted to.

"You've loved two guys in your entire life," Nate told her.

And to that, Chuck could not help but whisper, "You loved me."

She stiffened in his arms, and he wondered if she could hear him.

"I was one of them," Nate said. "You've got to come out of this, Blair. You can't hang on to someone who's been gone for half a decade. If you do," he said quietly, "then you might as well be dead too."

At the words, Chuck raised his head and stared at his best friend.

"I love you," Nate said. Chuck looked long and hard at the guy. "For two years, it's always been between him and me. But you loved two guys, and I'm the only one here."

Liar.

"It's not the same," she answered. "I loved you both, but I loved him." If he did not know her, if he did not breathe her, if he did not live her, he would not have understood. But he had heard almost the same from his father earlier, recognized the distinction as a difference so utterly basic it was essential.

It was the distinction that made the difference between letting his mother go, and letting go of Lily.

"Think about how you feel. Do you really want to feel like this your entire life?" Nate asked.

She shook her head. Chuck met his father's eyes.

Nate held out a hand. "Give it to me."

She hesitated, but Nate encouraged her with a nod. She reached up behind her and felt for the clasp at her nape. Chuck watched as she unlocked the clasp and lifted the thin strand from her neck. Carefully, slowly, she locked it again and held up the ring she used as her pendant.

Endgame.

And it had hung from her neck for five years.

Nate took the ring and glanced at the inscription, then dropped it into his pocket. He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. "This is good," he said. "This is a start."

She walked with Nate to the door of the suite, and Chuck went to his father.

"Have you seen what you need?" his father asked.

Chuck nodded. Because Nate was on a mission now, and he was, surprisingly, right in most of what he claimed. And if he stayed away, then maybe she would be more willing to participate.

She wasn't dead, although she sure as hell was trying to live like she was.

"I just—I want to say goodbye."

So his father nodded, and Chuck followed her closely as she walked to the bedroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. He stopped behind her and stared at their reflection. They did look good together, always had. Unfortunately for her, it was only her own reflection that she saw.

Abruptly she placed a hand over her mouth and she stumbled towards the bathroom, then he heard the gagging noises as she threw up the liquid contents of her otherwise empty stomach. He stood beside her by the sink.

Afterwards she made her way back and settled on the bed. He lay down behind her and placed a kiss on her cool, moist neck.

This would be the very last time, so he wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her to him. "This is the last time," he said softly. Because he was not going to make it more difficult. And she was going to move on.

"I can't," she murmured. Blair sighed in the darkness, and he realized she was talking to him. "Chuck, I can't. Not when I know you're right here with me."

She sighed.

"Not while there's a chance."

He wondered when in the last five years since he died did she ever believe there would be a chance.

"Not while I still feel you. Not when you're with me. Even if it's like this," she whispered.

He emerged from the room a little more than an hour later, tearing himself away from his side after she had fallen asleep and he swore he had filled every space in his memory with the scent and the sound and the sensation of her. He pulled the door open and found himself stepping back into the hospital room.

He saw her pushed behind the doctors when a team rushed inside the room. His figure on the bed seized violently, and she huddled in the corner watching with a horrified look on her face.

Chuck started towards her, and his father caught his arm.

"It's time to go," his father said.

Chuck stared at her, then the body on the bed. The doctors stabilized him with drugs, because he felt the calm pump through his veins. She made her way back to the side of the bed, and he felt the warmth on his face, saw her tears drop on his cheek.

Not while there's a chance, she said, and he could feel her, feel the drugs, hear the frantic whispers she showered.

"No, dad," he said, surprising himself.

"You can't be selfish. If you're in love—"

"What, dad?"

"Love is sacrifice. It's letting go."

"Not with us," he answered. And with his decision, he felt his entire body draw together tightly, painfully. "You said it yourself. There's a different kind of love every time. For us, love isn't letting go. It's chasing and it's hurting and it's fighting and it's playing and it's never giving up even when she's begging you to." And then, "It's staying even if you know you'd be better off leaving."

The wall of the hospital room seemed to fall away, and Chuck blinked at the brilliant vision that appeared in front of him.

His father said, "If you see it now, you have to walk in, Chuck. Son, I don't want you lost."

He was blindsided by the sight. He had thought the concept marvelous, but not once did he expect heaven would tease her with a vision. He almost stepped forward, then he heard softly, "You scared me. I was so afraid. But you're okay. I have you."

Chuck stepped backward. The vision dimmed, and next he saw the wall was back, sturdy, and, he realized, a little but ugly.

His father sighed. "Is it gone?"

"Yes," Chuck answered, still staring at the spot where it used to be. "You didn't see it?"

"Your image of heaven comes from your head. And I'm not there in your head," his father admitted. He cleared his throat. "It's gone. If you die now—"

"It's not your fault, dad."

"I'm your guide."

"It was my choice."

"You'd rather here than heaven?"

Chuck looked back at his body, battered and cut and bruised, and he was beginning to feel the rawness of his cuts. He was pretty sure there was no pain if he went. Still, he nodded. He turned back to his father. But Bart had a grin on his face, staring at the door.

Chuck asked, "How does it look to you, dad? Still the tallest building in the world?"

"No," his father replied. "That was my doorway. Now someone's just picking me up." Chuck watched in fascination as his father's face was awash with calm. "He's not coming. It's not my fault!" Realized who it was who came for his father, wished for a moment he could see.

And then, as he walked, Bart Bass faded away.

"Bye dad."

He turned around to face Blair, heard the noises piercing his ears, then fell on his knees at the intense pain shooting from his skull.

He opened his eyes and muttered an endless string of curses when he was blinded by searing light. There was soft laughter in the background, and even that hurt his head. His entire body seemed open and rubbed raw with salt, and his leg was heavy.

"Rise and shine," he heard her say cheerfully.

And even if just for that he braved the painful light and opened his eyes. Her face swam above his, and he blinked until he regained his focus.

"Waldorf," he choked out.

"Lazybones!" she teased, her voice thick and he could see her eyes wet.

He tried to raise his arm so he could wipe them, but his limbs were heavy. She smiled, knowing what he wanted to do. She quickly dried her eyes.

"Everybody's here. They came as soon as they heard," she said, bubbling over in an effort to be enthusiastic. But she was tired. He could see it on her face, hear it in her voice. "They're all here for you. Serena and Lily, of course. Lily's required by law to be here, I think," she joked. "Nate and Eric. And Eric's here for me more than you." The boy shrugged, but nodded in agreement, then winked at Chuck. As an afterthought, she added, "Well, Dan and Rufus and little J too."

But he only wanted to talk to her.

When the visitors had left, she slid into the bed beside him. Her tense body took time to relax, and even then she clutched at him like she was afraid he would be gone by morning.

And then it was like coming down from an adrenaline rush, and she trembled in the aftermath, sniffling in tears she held the entire afternoon.

"You died," she said. "Just before you woke up, you seized and then you were gone." Her fingers tightened on the sheet at his abdomen. "I don't know how long. Just a minute, I think they said. It felt longer."

Five years, he thought. But she didn't know that.

"I wouldn't have survived."

"Don't say that," he cautioned. "You're Blair Waldorf."

"That's why," she reasoned. There was so much to do, so much to complete so that they would have a chance at life whatever happened. Even if they didn't want to. For now it was enough to hold her. "Chuck, what was it like?" she asked. "Did you see a bright tunnel?"

"No," he said.

"What did you see?"

He kissed the top of her head, then closed his eyes, remembered the vision that was his image of heaven, conjured by his mind as an invitation to the other side. It took a strong man to turn his back on heaven, but for him it had been easy enough. So he answered. "I saw you," he said, capturing in three words the images that were seared in his brain.

Blair, in her wedding dress, stepping out of the Empire with a bouquet in her hands.

Blair, pregnant and wearing a satin nightgown, pulling at his tie and pushing his jacket off.

Blair, waving away his video camera while nursing their baby.

Blair.

Everywhere Blair.

"Me," she reflected.

"I realized it would have been selfish to go. We can have heaven right here."

fin


End file.
